To Be Fearful of the Night
by SneakAttack29
Summary: Lys tried to save the world once. It didn't work. So she naturally wants no part in having to save the world in which her failure left her stranded, but it seems fate has other plans for her. She just really wasn't banking on having to deal with a hole in the sky. A disgraced heroine becomes an unwilling sidekick to the Inquisitor. Will contain daedra shenannigans! Mild OCxSolas
1. Disenchantment of the World

**_To Be Fearful of the_** **Night**  
 **By:** SurreptitiousFox245 _  
_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Dragon Age or Elder Scrolls. All rights go to their respective peoples. I'm simply someone with too much time (*cough* tendency towards procrastination) on her hands and an overactive imagination.

 _ **Quick Author's Note**_ : Wohooo! It's here! The remake of All Fall Down! For those of you new, welcome! TBFOTN is a rewrite of a previous fanfic of mine called All Fall Down, which is still posted if you are at all inclined to check it out! If not, that's fine - this is going to take its place, anyway. If you're here because you read AFD, then hello again and I hope I do not disappoint with this.

The only real changes are POV (I went from second to first to keep consistency with some of my other stories that are in first person - I found myself getting confused between the two and it was getting troublesome), tense, and I'm changing where and how Lys meets the Inquisition. I didn't like how I did it in AFD, so it's going to me mixed and matched a bit. But shouldn't be anything too major. A fresh coat of paint, if you will.

Also, yes, the opening quote is by a sociologist. And I'm going to be _that_ sociology student and say - it's not pronounced "web-err", it's "vay-ber". Yeah. I went there.

Without further adieu, enjoy!

* * *

" _The fate of our times is characterized by rationalization and intellectualization and, above all, by the disenchantment of the world_."

-Max Weber

* * *

 ** _~Nirn – 4E 204~_**

* * *

 **I can't think of much else aside from my failure as I watch the sky fall.** Of all the places for them to choose to force me to watch the chaos, the Throat of the World is eerily appropriate. I can see the cracks of light emerging from the sun like a spider web, darting along in a familiar pattern following where the constellations should be beyond the day. Noon is a symbol, and it is a good one. It is a reminder, a slap in the face—the god of magic, _their_ god, beholden to a much higher regard than the god of mortals, undoing His mistake and cleansing a sour taste from Existence. And it serves to remind me that I fail, that I am failing in the moment. Nirn is _dying_ , if a world even can, no new one ready to be birthed in its place, and it is as much my fault as it is theirs.

A few spindly hands hold my arms and shoulders in iron grips that shove me to my knees, surely bruising them, but what does it even matter anymore? Golden sneers not unlike my own cast amused, if aghast looks at the haphazard, cobbled set of leathers adorning my person. Their robes in comparison are much more immaculate, not a string or stitch out of place. I have long since stopped the disparaged staring at the large, draconic bones that are even now half-buried in the snow. Mourning the loss at this point will do me no good. He is already long dead, just I am bitterly late in finding out.

Fading is not actually an apt description of what the sky is doing— _dissolving_ perhaps fits better, though even it is a bit far from the mark. I can't tell if the light that is left behind is comforting or more of a void. It engulfs everything, creeping down to the tip of the mountain and causing stone to roar across stone as matter by its very nature resists being torn apart in such a manner. I want to fight, want to scream, but all I can do is shy away from the light as it grows ever nearer until it engulfs me, too.

I am fading, I realize with an absentminded sense of awe that feels detached, when I should not be fading in the first place. It gives me some hope then, that maybe, just maybe, _they_ had been wrong.


	2. To Be Fearful of the Night

**_To Be Fearful of the_** **Night**  
 **By:** SurreptitiousFox245

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ I don't own DA or ES - all rights go to their respective peoples.

 _ **Quick Author's Note**_ : Aaaand first chapter! Figured the prologue was a bit short, so I wouldn't leave y'all hanging.

Enjoy!

* * *

 _Chapter 1: To Be Fearful of the Night_

* * *

" _I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._ "

-Sarah Williams

* * *

 ** _~Thedas – 9:30 Dragon~_**

* * *

 **I never once thought that birds can sound so melodic.** I am groggy and tired as I wake, met only with darkness and eyes too heavy to lift. Too tired to see. I slowly begin to feel small things—a feather-light touch skitters across my forearm, a cool, earthy moisture tinges the air around me. Sounds are next to enter the forming picture of where I am located—leaves rustling upon bark and other leaves, bullfrogs croaking a mating ballad. A forest, but a picture of it never forms even as I try to pry my eyes open. Only darkness follows, and this is how I conclude bemusedly that I am blind.

It goes beyond physical, I notice too, but it is a detached realization, like a limb that has been asleep for too long finally gaining some semblance of feeling, yet not quite there. I do not _know_ , I do not _See_ , and that is terrifying. I expect the disorientation, but it still takes several moments for me to realize that I am laying on earthen ground instead of leaning upon a rock or tree as I initially think by the sharp point of a thick root digging into the middle of my back. There are birdcalls, though they are diluted. It is still daylight, somewhere near evening. Sunset, I want to believe, and I suddenly feel a sharp panging to see it. Pushing the panic sprouting from the loss of two of my senses to the back of my mind, I focus instead on what I remember.

My face drains of color immediately. That's right—I shouldn't be alive.

Where my eyes are gone, my mind remains sharp, and the scene flashes before me again, cruel reminders that I am wrong in this situation, that the _situation_ is wrong as myself. The deafening roar of stone rolling across stone only to vanish seconds later, someone had been cheering on the mountain. _Fading_ , I remember, when I should not have faded at all; when I should have simply ceased to be and been completely unaware of the transition. Why I am alive, I decide not to question. At least not at the moment. I have more pressing matters to deal with, particularly in pertinence to where I currently am.

A humorous thought occurs to me, half-joking and the other half curious. Perhaps I am enough of _them_ to be reabsorbed into whatever convoluted afterlife to which they think they belong. It is stupid and fleeting. This place does not have the…hmm… _completeness_ I would expect of the Aetherial plane. It feels far too mortal and far less magical. Plainly, I do not know. And plainly again, this frightens me. I can no longer See, in more ways than one, and I find myself helpless in unknown territory, alone, with no allies.

"Damn," I breathe, dragging a hand through my hair once the appendage manages to blindly find the top of my head, an old habit mixed with fumbling effort that should not be there. This frustrates me, too, and I whip my head up and back against the ground with a _thwack!_ "Ow." Not my smartest move, I will admit.

For how long I lay here, trying to decide what to do next, I don't know. It could be minutes, hours, or days; without being able to see the passing of light, I don't hazard to guess what with being lost in thought. Eventually, though, the sound of a bowstring being pulled semi-taught makes me wary enough to heave myself into what I suppose can pass as a sitting position. It is embarrassing, the scrambling involved in a once-simple act.

If I did not have mer blood in me and the acute hearing that brings, I would not be registering it at all. The severity of the sound indicates senses heightened beyond what I am used to. Strange that these boons would manifest so quickly after losing my sight—they should not be doing so. My sight was not taken accidentally, this much I can tell. It is probably a trade-off, then. No one ever claims the Godhead does not have a sense of mercy—or humor, as is more likely. _It_ has always seemed to enjoy playing with me, and I somehow doubt the current excursion in which I find myself is something as mundane as _accidental displacement_. _It_ simply doesn't _do_ "accidents".

" _Accidentally-on-purpose_ " …well, now, _that_ is certainly more plausible.

A hand sliding to my belt reassures me that my glass dagger is at least still there, though I'm doubtful about how much use it will be in my current state. It is hard to cut something one cannot see. The magika thrumming beneath my fingertips, still potent, does give me some measure of confidence, however, in my ability to defend myself if need be. "Who's there?" A pause ensues, brief but lingering enough for it to register as suspicious. Maybe considering, but I am not ready to grant such amnesties so soon.

"An elf who speaks first in common tongue so close to a Dalish camp?" The voice, obviously male yet of a resonating lilt screaming something other than human tersely scoffs after a moment. "I'd guess you should be ashamed of yourself, but you've the look of no elf, Dalish or otherwise, native to these lands." My stomach drops, but I do my best to conceal this fact. I'm still sure I blanch, though.

I roll my eyes in their sockets out of habit, leering somewhere off towards the left where I track the person to whom the voice presumably belongs and gesturing to him sardonically. "I suppose you believe me a danger?"

"Hardly," replies this man I cannot see, and it is too flat to be passive. He is angry. "You are trespassing on Dalish lands."

"I am here by mistake. What is to be my punishment for trespassing if it is unintentional?"

"Death if you draw that dagger, outsider." I think my accuser snarls, but I can only be so sure. My hand still retreats placidly from my waist. I am not about to start a fight whilst so thoroughly handicapped. I am undoubtedly many things, but I like to think a fool is not commonly one of those.

This unknown person seems at least willing to recognize this attempt at compliance, and I think I hear the bow drop. He stays silent, though I am not above feeling the flame cloak itching my subconscious to be cast. I restrain only for the sneaking suspicion that it is probably not even necessary. There is something oddly comforting about these woods—and by extension, my current interrogator—and it is safe. But where safety lurks, so does darkness; I feel that distinctly, too. It warrants caution, but perhaps more of my surroundings than of the individual.

Finally, he sighs. "I should take you to the Keeper." The weapon is shouldered, if the rustling of cloth and wood is anything to go by. Timidly, I reach a hand out hoping that my request for assistance is not to be taken poorly. A beat later and I feel a wash of relief as a slim hand clasps itself around my wrist. My forearms are covered in tattered leather bracers that have seen better days, and the grip that I feel through them is uncomfortable in that it means I must rely on this person I do not know. I remind myself that it is necessary, that I do not have a choice, but it pangs at my pride regardless.

We begin walking, though it is slow going. My companion seems to either recognize my disability or fear I will run, as he keeps a hand on my elbow to steer me in the correct direction and steady my stumbles. He also sees fit to give me a lecture on conduct. "Keeper Marethari is to be respected, outsider, so mind your words." I nod acceptingly. There will be no arguing from me—these are his customs and beliefs, not mine, and I am in need of help. If respecting this Keeper gets me that, then I have already lost a world. What else is there to lose?

"Noted," I say. Then I bite my chapped lip in thought. "Do you… What is your name?" My escort deigns not to respond, and simply keeps stepping over branch-strewn ground as if I hadn't uttered a word. Somewhat insulted, I turn my gaze elsewhere (or maybe I turn it on him, I can't tell) in defiance. Defiance of what, I don't know. I'll figure out something to defy. It seems to be all I am good at lately—acts of contempt.

 _Enough to show defiance_ , the memory spins itself so suddenly, I fight to keep my gait smooth. _If all I can further myself to be for my withering cause is a symbol of hope, a flame, then so be it_. I feel sick. Old words, ink on parchment, things I had never said and would never say to a people who would never again have ears to hear it. A _symbol_ is all I suppose I was, if I wish to be generous. I did nothing, in the end. Watched, waited—I failed, and as a result, _so many,_ _lost…_

"Pardon?" I snap my head up, for what good the action is. It takes a few moments for me to realize I am muttering my thoughts aloud. And I don't know why, let alone if it's remotely accurate, but my mind paints a picture of my companion. Shorter than my part-Altmeri height by a few inches, lithe, fair-haired, _human_ in all but the sharp, slim slope of the nose, tipped ears, and too-smooth gait. Wide eyes a scorched hazel shrouded by fine eyebrows sit elegantly in a pale, angular face. Tattoos scroll down his cheeks and across his forehead in the same golden green as his eyes, which are haunted by something I cannot place.

The image in my mind, I don't answer right away. In fact, I'm not quite sure if I can force the lie out that is sitting, ripe on the tip of my tongue. No, I think instead treacherously of the lives I left stranded to their fate. Unintentionally, perhaps, but I still did it. And that word, " _fate_ ". It leaves me tired, exhausted, and angry. _Fate_ was malleable in my hands until the one moment when it counted most. Then, my gifts failed me, were stripped away, and I was laughed on. _Fate_ , I realize, was nothing but a cheap excuse masking the reality that I had been bringing about the inevitable, and it is only a calamity that it takes me so long to realize this.

"Nothing," I manage to whisper finally, brokenly, staring off in a direction blankly as my mind perceives darkness where I _know_ there should be _something_. "A memory—just a memory." The image in my mind of what my nameless companion looks like continues to stare with a burning curiosity behind those imagined green-gold eyes, before he perhaps deems these problems of a trespasser too trifling to deal with. He turns silently away to watch the path ahead.

And his disregard is fine, I tell myself. It is absolutely fine.

* * *

 **I am vaguely aware before I step** into this camp that I am longing to see it, its unfamiliarity, to make it familiar and then bask in the feeling. Instead, I file this moment away and stuff the desire back. I keep it in my mind to know how to do this again, because I also know somewhere in my heart that this will not be the only time I yearn for sight again. There are sounds of nature as I felt before when I first woke, but somehow they seem purer the closer I am led towards the center. Sparking of life fiercely celebrated, yet as potently revered and protected, dances wildly across my tongue with every breath I draw through lips parted in respectful awe. It is the aftertaste of a plethora of spells, too pure and burning on my skin as it comforts and is _wrong_. It fills my lungs with a sense of security that if asked to describe, I will surely find myself at a gross loss for words. Except that beneath the glamour and glitter, _it is wrong_.

Songs so beautiful they are in a way terrible ring out intermittently, breaking only by the distance put between weaver and audience as we move. The music speaks wordlessly and yet seamlessly of love, laughter, tears, sorrow—hopeful anguish, I deem, among other things that have me wondering just _where_ in Mundus I am. Just what these people have suffered. It is a humbling thought, somehow.

Ironically, it is the very loss of the one sense I wish to have in inclusion that keeps me attached so thoroughly to reality. I can feel the desire for it tugging harshly at my mind, my soul, but I realize the futility of such things and try to ignore the pain. If I were to see these new things, to visualize as well as taste and touch and feel—I do not doubt for a moment that I would be lost and my grief forgotten. And my grief is something I decide I can't lose, not yet. It is something I have to suffer with, my repentance, my punishment, my consequence made painfully true.

" _Aneth ara_ , Fenarel," a voice calls out softly from the bustle of life. Though quiet, it still takes me a bit off guard. I can clearly hear the trepidation within the feminine lilt, and I suspect it has much to do with my presence. At least I do until suddenly, the singing and merriment stops in allowance for a sharp, pungent stench of fear, anger, and uncertainty to settle darkly, unexplained and utterly virulent.

A nod perhaps too curt and stiff sounds from my escort. "Merrill. Do you know where the Keeper is?" My guide, Fenarel's, voice seems almost rigid, a little _too_ polite when compared to Merrill's friendliness. I tense. I trust no one, but his reaction is too on-edge for general dislike. I sense an aura, more of a suggestion than anything else, around the girl that I can feel even from where I stand a few feet away. It's magical, certainly, and quite Aedric which I find interesting and file away for later. But it is tinged with darkness, desperation, _pride_. Danger, I realize—a threat in the making, something everyone around me seems to also easily recognize, and they are so quick to despise it, despise _her_ with every fiber of their collective being. Unsettled does not do them justice.

It is not so scary to me. It's alike to the lingering touch one tends to carry if they're fresh from a Daedric shrine. _Not_ one of the more harmless ones, either. Merrill feels like she just came from the shrine to Molag Bal in Markarth or from within the confines of the fort housing Vaermina's artifact overlooking Dawnstar. It is an essence of one fresh from the mountain-lifted altar protected by the vigilant, four-armed statue of Mehrunes Dagon in all his terrible glory. It is akin, but ever-so-slightly _different_ , and I figure it an important discrepancy of which to be aware.

It is not Daedric magic saturating the elf, running, shining powerfully through her veins and permeating the very soil upon which she stands. No magic like mine is reaching tentative tendrils of potent, intangible flame out to touch the magika in my blood, teasing, testing it—testing _me_. It is not quite _chaotic_ enough to feel like home. It's closer to Aedric magic, but in my fatigue I am loathe to analyze any deeper.

The one thing I am certain about, though, is that it is slowly, _agonizingly slowly_ being diseased by something I cannot place. And this scares me on an almost primal level I can't explain.

"She is with Ashalle," Merrill frets, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere directed towards her, or perhaps just very good at ignoring it, "discussing something ab-bout Mahar…w-well, Mahariel. Why do you need her? Is it about who you have with you? She seems rather strange to be Dalish. She looks strange…is she from one of the cities? Oh, I've heard stories about the elves who live with the _shemlen_. Are any of them true?" I gape because I am not quite sure how to handle the barrage of questions _about_ me, but not directed _to_ me.

Despite the apparent rudeness, Fenarel's response is not just chilled—it is downright _cold_. I frown. Awkward, yes, but warranting this reaction? "Perhaps—I hardly see where it is _your_ concern. _Fen'Harel ma ghilana_."

" _Lethallin!_ " she cries, and she sounds utterly stricken. "Y-you don't mean that…!"

My guide is quick to defend whatever the statement means. "I do, Merrill. You're _lucky_ the Keeper allows you to remain with the Clan, and that is _all_. This path you chose will be the downfall of us all." Gaping, I am just _lost_. I don't know what is going on, but I pity the girl anyway. Everything about this exchange just seems too left-of-field.

"I—"

" _The Keeper_ , First," Fenarel presses, the word said as a title, and he is clearly not interested in hearing more from her.

Silence reigns for several seconds before Merrill sighs, defeated. " _Ma nuvenin_. This way. I will take you to her."

I am gripped by the arm again, and the contact brings the imagined face of Fenarel I came up with earlier to the forefront of my mind. His lips are drawn farther into their displeased scowl than they were before, warping the tattoos running down his chin. My brain apparently decides to add more detail-the tattoos are now an intricate mass of scrollwork in the form of vines, twisting and undulating unto themselves. I do not recognize the tiny script expertly inked into lines and shaded with a remarkably steady hand, but I'm pretty sure I must have seen it somewhere, else my brain would not have thought to conjure it. As before, the image fades as quickly as it appears. We are carefully taking steps around roaring campfires seconds after.

Murmuring follows us, though after the previous display, I have to wonder just how much of it has to do with me, and how much of the whispered comments follow Merrill instead. I am never given an answer as we draw to the opposite edge of camp. Deposited here and there I think are structures, perhaps, carts? I am pretty sure my hand brushed a wheel at one point, and I can hear the hooves of animals prancing nearby. It isn't wild prancing, but domesticated. Oxen? No, they do not sound heavy enough—they're lighter. I can't figure, and I deign not to bother. It could just as easily be an animal new to me as it could be familiar.

Led up a ramp, we enter something that feels like a cross between a cart and a tent. The air here is warmer than the autumnal-like exterior and smells of spices that I can't place. The effect is not altogether bad. "Keeper?"

There is shuffling, someone standing perhaps, and a grizzled yet not unkind voice answers back in this foreign tongue I've heard sprinkled around me. I can't make heads or tails of it—I've always been bad with languages outside of merish—but it's the first time I've really heard it spoken in entirety. I wonder why that is?

Either way, the voice is a woman's. She's older by the sound of things. A wisdom carries on this fluid language she speaks with Merrill and Fenarel, and it reminds me of Idgrod in a way. I'm surprised somewhat by the panging I feel in my heart at the reminder that I'm never going to see the Jarl again, the woman who had served as a mentor for so many years. What would she tell me in this situation? Probably something cryptic about not losing hope. I quirk a smile. Easy for her to speak of not losing hope—she always knew what would happen if we did.

"I see," this new woman, Keeper, finally speaks in a language I can understand. I can feel eyes on me, and it's mildly disconcerting as I cannot conversely see them. Blindness is going to take some getting used to. "And have neither of you asked the poor girl her name?"

Something like shuffling sounds from my left, and Merrill's voice mutters, "N-no, Keeper. My apologies."

Name? My mouth opens as if to answer, but the sounds die before they ever leave my throat. My…my name? I think to the little string of syllables and letters and words that denote who I am. Or used to, at least. A name synonymous with failure, one that _should_ be synonymous now. A name responsible for how many deaths?

I don't have to be her here, I realize. It hits me like a punch to the gut. _I don't have to be her_. I don't have to be _Lys_ if I don't want to. If I can't face her. Me.

Slowly, I stop gaping and blink despite the uselessness of the motion. "My name, it's… I'm not…" Those eyes that have been peering at me suddenly become appraising. I think. I don't know why.

"If it's not something to recall," begins the Keeper slowly, bidding I catch something behind her words I'm not sure I can, "then we can always give you a new one."

 _An out_ , I realize. She is giving me an out that I don't have to lie for, and I want to laugh. This woman is more like Idgrod than I could have thought possible, it seems.

I shake my head. "I cannot recall. I'm sorry."

"It is of no consequence," she tells me kindly, a hand gently laying itself across my shoulder to guide me further into the structure we are standing in. "I am Keeper Marethari. Come now, child. Let us have a look at those injuries. Perhaps we may figure out where to go from there."

* * *

 **I am given food and healed** over the next handful of hours. I am given clean clothes and helped into them by a bubbly Merrill; a man who I am later informed is something equivalent to a blacksmith, Ilen, offers to clean and repair my daggers. The armor, he tells me, while originally of a sturdy make is too far gone now to be salvageable. Good riddance, I tell him. It carries bad memories, anyway. He doesn't pry further, but I think he wants to.

Marethari while she is healing me does something with her strange, Aedric magic that makes my skin crawl and her jump. She tells me later that it was a test. I can't fathom for what, but by the tone of her voice, the fact that I passed is probably a good thing. I am asked questions that are as noninvasive as possible, and I play dumb for the most part. Yes, I'm from another world. At least, I think. Perhaps. It is fuzzy—something traumatic. I do not think I can return home. Things like that. A part of my frazzled mind still knows enough to garner as much sympathy as I can in order to withhold as much information as possible, and these elves fall for it, for the most part.

It is a joint effort between Marethari and Merrill to answer _my_ questions, but I gather that this world I now find myself in is called Thedas, and that they are a clan of elves known as the Dalish. I personally think this is a dream on some level, but the lingering pain from my freshly healed wounds tells me otherwise. I am in shock still, and I think they realize that on some level. Any information I gain is piecemeal over the course of a month and a half, if only to keep my brain from imploding with all of the difference and change. I appreciate it.

No one says anything about my appearance, at least not to my face in a language I can understand. Any harsh words directed towards me specifically are in that other tongue that these elves speak, the one I cannot decipher, and they are usually just as quickly reprimanded by Merrill who has made herself constant at my side. I don't know if her presence is at the behest of Marethari or simply because the girl is curious and _wants_ to tail me everywhere. Either way, I am minorly appreciative of the support. Everyone for the most part, though, is polite. Curt at first, certainly, and wary, but the more I try to talk to them candidly and openly, the more they seem to accept me. It feels…weird, I think. To belong anywhere. But that is neither here nor there as I am still an outsider. I do _not_ belong, no matter how much I wish it. My face is proof enough.

Trying to piece together where I am in the grand scheme of things is difficult. I can still pull on my magic, though it is slower, so I am still within the mortal plane. I find it ironic. This was the one thing _they_ had wanted to destroy, and look at that? It's still here. I try to mind myself, though, mind my magic. According to Merrill, magic is not commonplace here and is feared by most. The Dalish are a rare exception who embrace people born with magical talent, but when she explains demonic possession to me, I understand why even they have their cautions. Of course, she has to explain demons and the Fade to me as well, but they're things I try to swallow in tiny bits. This with my appearance makes me far more understanding about being hidden away the first time an outsider other than myself stumbled around the camp. It seems Marethari is as content to keep me hidden from the others of this world as I am to remain so.

I get along well with the blacksmith, Ilen, and in my first half a month with the clan (who I learn is migratory, weirdly enough), he crafts me a mask upon weaseling out of me the insecurity I harbor about my appearance. It is not just any mask. Back in Skyrim, between all the running and the fighting, we had stumbled upon one of the old Dragon Priests. Reanimated, of course, and Lurks-In-Shadows had almost lost his tail trying to fight the damned thing, but we brought it down. The mask had been an intricate, enchanted work of art that I had marveled over before deeming that since Jogrunn had struck the killing blow, he deserved the prize. Not that he wore it—it ended up being thrown in a trunk somewhere never to see the light of day again. Typical nord.

Ilen had listened to my (subdued) tale, and unbeknownst to me, recreated the mask as best he could. It feels accurate, at any rate, and it is actually when I receive the mask that I also receive another nugget of information.

I can see.

Kind of.

Not…not like I want to. My fingertips, bared, brush against the lacquered ironbark, and I realize that these flashes of images I've been getting in my head aren't just my imagination making up for the sight I've lost. I keep quiet about this discovery, though I think Marethari suspects, and spend some time experimenting with it. No healing magic of mine is able to fix my eyes, neither could Marethari or Merrill's. Pity or plan, I wonder? What was intended of this? I've been a toy for the Godhead, but though I think I am paying the price for… _something_ , I am not fully disabled by it. _It_ could feel sorry for me, if that's something _It's_ capable of. Or—and this is the more frightening theory— _It_ ' _s_ not done with me yet.

I hope it's the former.

Regardless of why, I have some limited field of vision so long as my skin is in contact with something in the environment. It pans out, webbing like too much water on a painting. I think the reason I didn't notice it before is because I've taken to covering as much of my skin as I possibly can, simply because the difference…well, it makes others uncomfortable despite how much they try to hide it out of courtesy. So, I hide myself instead and didn't realize how overwhelming my ability to "see" actually can be. This… _touch-vision_ , for lack of a better term, is not affected by if I have something over my eyes or not, and the strength of it depends on how much contact I have with the environment. I don't think it's really my eyes taking in the information, if that makes any sense. It's my magic in a way. A latent spell? I know of a handful that require the caster to physically touch an object to manipulate it. Something to ponder.

I take to wearing my mask permanently, along with a cowl, cloth covering every inch of my body where I can manage it, and some cleverly placed holes in my gloves where the pads of my fingers are. It limits how well I can see, but it's more manageable. And smarter, I think. I know I can't stay with the Sabrae clan forever, and just wandering around Thedas looking like I do sounds like the perfect way to get myself killed. Merrill had grudgingly told me of how many in the clan thought me possessed initially by my appearance. I'm not keen on that, so keeping myself as out of sight as I can is probably going to be necessary. Ironically, dressing like this to avoid attention makes me stick out like a sore thumb.

At least I've always been good at stealth and illusion spells, right?

It's several months after I join them that the clan makes their way to their destination, somewhere further north and warmer. Which I think is odd and maybe they have their directions backwards, but I don't comment. Marethari had told me all about why she was moving the clan northwards, all about the Blight, the Darkspawn. At first it makes me think of tales of the Vvardenfell Crisis, but upon further explanation, I realize that the Thedosian Blights make Dagoth Ur's plague seem tame in comparison. They— _we_ , I guess—settle on a mountain, Sundermount, near a city-state named Kirkwall. We are apparently not the only refugees fleeing Ferelden. The city even from afar seems overcrowded, and more people arrive in boatloads by the day.

The farther we traveled and the longer I am with the clan, the more I begin noticing just how bad the tensions between Merrill and the rest of the clan really are. I don't find out until well into my stay that the reason things are rocky is because the timid, innocent girl dabbles in blood magic. It's apparently taboo, consorting with demons, that sort of thing. I'm cautious about it, mostly because it's foreign and unfamiliar, but I do not understand why they have to shun the girl so harshly for her choices. I pick up that she is only doing it to try and restore an artifact? Yes, an artifact. A mirror of some kind, that was infected with Blight and killed two of their clan members before I joined them. She's misguided in her efforts—I don't see how consorting with entities that have earned the designation of demon can end well…then again, I consort with daedra, and aren't those the same thing?—but I cannot fault her for them. She will either learn or she will not. Shunning a mourning girl from her only available support does not a good idea make.

I can tell she wants to leave the clan after we reach Sundermount. I catch her staring at the city when she thinks no one is awake or noticing. Merrill doesn't have the will built up yet to leave, though I think the frequent disputes between her and Marethari are slowly starting to nudge her in that direction. I try to stay out of things for the most part. It's not my place to say one way or the other whether the First should stay or leave. Just as it is not my place to say whether or not what she is doing is wrong.

Today, though… I sigh for what is probably the hundredth time, listening to the camp clamor lazily in the afternoon sun. The hunters should be returning soon, so the usual noise is demure. Next to me, Ilen hammers away at some new project he won't tell me anything about. I don't really care, I only pry to pass the time. Time being something I have an abundance of. Turns out, when you're blind, people don't really want you hunting. Or walking without assistance. Or being alone. Or practicing magic. Or—

"If you sigh again, girl, I'm going to throw my hammer at your head. Give you something to sigh about." I don't jump at Ilen's grumbling. It's nothing new. Instead, I lazily turn my masked face in his direction and scoff.

My black cowl isn't pulled over my head today, so my blond hair is left down around my shoulders instead of back in its usual knot. It also gives the permanent ironbark scowl a clearer line of sight. More intimidating that way. "Maybe I wouldn't sigh so much if people would stop treating me like I'm made of glass. Or a monster. Either one."

I can feel the look he gives me, sharp and reprimanding. "Mind it."

"I know, not having this conversation again," I reply sourly, crossing my arms and swinging my legs from where I'm perched on the makeshift counter he sets for his equally as makeshift shop. Literally no one buys anything from him. I don't know why he even keeps his little store. "Just…you know how I feel about being useless." And he does, just…not really. I've told him I don't like being dead weight to the clan, and while that's true, it's not the whole of it. I'm being useless to Nirn, to her memory. Marethari can only teach me so much about how Thedas works, and I can only theorize how I got here to an extent. I need to find more information. I need to learn. But I can't do that here.

At least, that's my excuse. I've got a bit of wanderlust. Sue me—tensions aren't exactly fluffy around the camp, either.

"You'll find your place," he says, though I find it about as reassuring as the last forty-seven times he's said it. "Your reclusiveness doesn't endear you to them, Sol'adahla." I cringe a little at the name. When I claimed to Marethari not to remember my own (lies), the clan had banded together to give me a new one. At first it had been Da'banal, "little nothing". Ironic? I didn't know. I didn't care—I had a name that wasn't Lys. I had a name that wasn't me. Three weeks later, I let slip something about remembering a flower, amaryllis, being connected to my name. A stupid joke that had followed me since I was a child, but it had stuck. They took to calling me Sol'adahla instead. "Prideful flower", their word for amaryllis. Some associations transcend worlds, it seems—amaryllis means pride here as much as they did back home.

I shake my head. While I may be accepted by the clan and they are cordial, that does not mean that they are not afraid of me. Most are apathetic, admittedly, but some… "I'm not…they don't want me here." I fiddle with my gloves, but Ilen seems to notice.

"You wish to leave."

Faltering, I shrug. "Maybe. I can't stay here forever."

"You could," he scoffs, returning to his hammering. "If you wanted to stay, no one would protest. But you don't."

Perceptive little… Breathing in a sigh, I don't answer right away. Ilen is content to let me stew, hammering away at his mysterious pet project. My feet itch to walk, to wander, but something keeps me rooted to the clan. I want to leave. I don't deny it. There's a need calling out to me, screaming that I need to puzzle where, how, and why I am in Thedas, something I can't do with Marethari's limited information. Limited by her own admission, no less! But…I press my fingers to the wooden table with enough pressure to catch sight of Merrill, miserably curled over a scroll as people mutter obscenities at her. It steels my resolve. I can't leave. Not yet. Not while she still faces this…wrath. Comradery, perhaps? I am shunned, and so is she. Called demon under their breaths, accepted grudgingly and with false smiles that we _know_ are false but have to bear anyway for fear of truly becoming the monsters they already think us to be.

I don't want to admit it, but there is more of me in the girl than appears at first glance.

"Protest openly, no."

The hammering suddenly stops. "They don't know you. Your fault—you don't give them the _chance_ to know you."

"I do to!" I jeer back as if insulted, hand flying over my heart.

Ilen retorts dryly, "You pitch your tent as far from the camp as you can get while still being in it. You wear a mask every day that scares the hunters, never mind the children. You refuse assistance when you clearly need it—" I bristle at that one. "—and you practically cut off poor Ashalle the other day when she tried to speak with you."

Okay, that last one I can't deny, but the grieving woman was getting on my nerves. Just because her ward died doesn't mean that she has to cry to everyone who will listen. My world died—no one sees me blubbering all over people!

I snap back, "Why are you so against me leaving, old man?" A pause, and I hear him sigh as he sets his tools down. His hand is quick to land on my shoulder. I jump but leave it otherwise. He doesn't mean me harm, I know that logically, but I still…I haven't been able to deal very well with people touching me since the mountain.

"You move well for a blind woman, but the second you leave the camp…," he cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I know you can care for yourself. I just don't understand your insistence to do so when you do not have to."

Ah. Of course he wouldn't. I frown, rubbing at my wrist where I had been bound what feels like centuries ago. Had it only been a year since I had been in chains? He wouldn't understand why I wish to leave so badly since I've never told him. But still…he does not give Merrill this same courtesy, this caring. Not this openly, at least. "I can't stay, Ilen."

"You don't _want_ to," he insists, but moves away nonetheless. Back to his project. Back to things that are not me, that are not troublesome. I turn back to glancing around my watercolor view of the camp, back to peering at Merrill, back to contemplating where I go from here.

* * *

 _ **Final Words**_ : And here's where it starts to deviate a bit. There probably won't be as many chapters between Lys leaving the Dalish and meeting up with the Inquisition as there was in AFD, so that's not going to be too far off. Rest assured, though, I am going to follow her a bit through her acclimitization to Thedas. Have no fears. There will be a run-in with Templars in her future (it's funny, I promise).

R&R!

~SurreptitiousFox


	3. Liberty or Death, I Can Never Decide

_**To Be Fearful of the Night  
By:**_ SurreptitiousFox245

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Elder Scrolls or Dragon Age. All rights go to their respective peoples. I'm just a sleepy 20 year old playing in the sandbox.

 _ **Quick Author's Note:**_ So terribly sorry for the wait. My summer was hell where I thought I'd have time to write. I found out I may have epilepsy. My parents got a puppy (mini dachshund, and his name is Thor and he's adorable, but HOLY SHIT HYPER AND STUBBORN). Bright side - he apparently can tell when I'm going to have a seizure and warn me. Bonus - I'm really tired and rambling.

Aaaaanyway, Dand! I'm bringing Dand back! I really like Dand, actually. He's one of the few OCs that I've made that I'm actually proud of. I drew him. I ought to share it sometime. I only have a chapter or two before we get to Inquisition. Exposition is boring-ish, but it's quite vital. I changed Lys' time in Kirkwall from AFD - I realized that her brokering didn't really make much sense, so I had her be coterie instead. Or at least start out that way. It made more sense to me.

Well, enjoy!

EDIT: I revised this chapter, at the end. That's why y'all are getting the update for it since I'm taking it down and reposting it. Sorry!

* * *

Chapter 3: Liberty or Death, I Can Never Decide

* * *

" _Is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? … I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!_ "

-Patrick Henry

* * *

 _ **~Thedas – 9:34 Dragon~**_

* * *

 **I leave the clan three months later.**

It seemed like a natural ending, if I'm honest. I waited until Merrill left with some human refugee and his merry band of misfits to go live in the city. Garrett Hawke, I believe is his name. I hadn't spoken to him or the dwarf, elf, or other human that tagged along, but I hadn't gotten the kindest impression from him. He smelled of unfamiliar magic, but the way he spoke to his companions and Merrill had made my skin crawl. While they were running an errand up to the top of Sundermount for some woman the Dalish revered, I aired my concerns to Keeper Marethari. She shared them, but tensions in the camp, and between herself and her First in particular, had grown too heated. The girl had to leave, and if Hawke was going to be the one to take her, then so be it. Merrill would be alright.

Glancing at the young First's sleight form and adoring naïveté, I had to question that notion. But it was not my place, so I kept silent.

Still, I followed after her to Kirkwall within a few months. I kept my distance, kept to the shadows and lurked mostly in Darktown with the rest of the city's criminals and downtrodden. The Undercity was the easiest place to hide myself away, and one would be amazed at the amount of gossip and information one can glean from those who are to most people invisible. I occasionally lingered around the Alienage, the elven slums, for the same reason, and to keep an eye on Merrill. But it was in Darktown that I could blend, even with my mask. I could probably show my bare face and not draw a lick of attention, honestly.

To this day, I don't quite know how exactly I ended up associating myself with the Coterie. It just sort of happened that One-Eye found me. The aptly nicknamed dwarf seemed to know that I was looking for information, though she knew not the specifics of why, and bartered a deal with me. Work for her, and I would be shown how to gain access to the archives I sought in the Gallows (the Circles of Magi as a whole being entirely different issues I took affront with—neither here nor there, however). It seemed a good deal and an effective use of my talents, so I accepted. I hadn't known what the Coterie was until after I had signed my life away, so to speak. A thieves' guild in reputation, it does a little bit of everything, from larceny, to assassination, to spying, to smuggling. One-Eye is one of a handful of cell leaders all answering to a man named Harlan, though from the dwarf's comments, I get the feeling that she and the main boss are not on the best of terms. Most of her jobs consist of spying, occasionally lending out her subordinates to other cells for assorted jobs as required. We do a lot of smuggling, too, though I suspect it's mostly because it's a considerably profitable venture at the moment. Plenty of addicted former Templars crave the lyrium that the Chantry regulates as tightly as their religion. The volatile mineral that when treated to be safe for ingestion gives the supposedly holy warriors their anti-magic abilities is worth more than its weight in gold. At least, it is valuable so long as demand outside the Chantry-leashed Templar Order endures within the city. Profit changes like tides in a storm in Kirkwall, or so I've noticed.

I don't mind the work too terribly. It's…a way to survive. A means to an end. I need information, and the Coterie can give me a path to get said information or at least see if the answers I seek even exist. And I am content with that, at the moment. Nirn will always weigh on me, but I feel…relatively at peace. I have centuries to live, to find an answer. Rushing will make mistakes, and mistakes will not help get my world back. How impatient I am to actually _do_ that notwithstanding. If there is _one_ lesson my caretaker at the Temple of Auri-El was able to drill into my head when I was a child, it would be patience.

One-Eye is a different story. I don't like the woman. I respect her because I must, because this unspoken contract we have demands it to be so, and there is no escape for me just yet. Because I still need her, still need the Coterie, need the knowledge they give me a way to attain. However, she does not treat those under her command with any inkling of professionalism or kindness. On her whims, if she finds a particular spy or agent of hers to be an annoyance, she is not above sending him on a suicide mission just to be rid of him. She has turned her own people over to the guards for the slightest infractions, and I know on more than one occasion she has quietly done so to people working for other cells. It's a source of contention within the Coterie as a whole. Part of the reason Harlan distrusts and dislikes her, I suspect, but her efficiency prevents him from acting on suspicion. Other than disliking her for the things I know she's done, I have no concrete proof, and it is not my place. So I do not meddle. _Don't ask too many questions_ is a bit of an unspoken rule, I suppose.

I find myself on the Wounded Coast because of a job, actually. Sequestered in a cave, waiting for a contact One-Eye promised. Recovering cargo was the all the gist I was allowed. That typically means smuggling, though, and I've played the smuggling game plenty of times in the past two or so years to be familiar with it. I've not met this contact, a commander of a mercenary company contracted much in the same way I am contracted to that wretched woman, but while I hate her, I also have enough trust in One-Eye to believe she will not send unreliable or sketchy agents. Coin motivates her, and it freezes her in predictability. I keep my ears tuned for the sound of shifting footprints in the sand, changes in the flow of air, the smell of strange magics on the wind (because any company worth their salt will have at least one apostate), clanking of weapons and armors. Foregoing invisibility chafes. It is an unfortunate necessity for this venture, but I refuse to be caught off guard. I will know their approach before they know me.

I'm a tad overcautious—it's a safety measure.

I cannot take risks. Not with my face, not with my magic, and definitely not with my origins. Fingering the daggers at my hips, finely tempered glass a dangerous remnant on one, with ironbark steel reminding me of my debts hanging from the other. Sol'Adahla is who I am now, in many respects. Amaryllis. Not Lys. Not her. Not the me of before. The me of now is new—scarred, but new. Lys is the too dangerous thing behind the mask I wear, and she is not to be unveiled. So I do not. _Will_ not. Her failures are hers and hers alone. Thedas, this glimmering second chance I've been handed, does not need to know of them. Does not need to suffer for them.

A distant, far off crunching sound. Lingering bickering, a prickle of magic on my skin, restrained but there. I do not see them. Blindness is something I still suffer from, though I feel I will for the remainder of my life. A trade—for what, I suspect, but cannot prove. Seeing through touch I can also still do, a mockery of sorts. Though my skin from head to toe is covered in dark fabrics and leathers, small, unnoticeable holes at the pads of my fingertips as well as Mage-Sight give me more than most. It is not perfect, and it is limited. But one takes what one is given.

I press those fingertips to cool stone, peek at the watercolor light spilling on the sand as they approach. Mid-afternoon, and the tide is also telling. Four people, sun glinting off metal. One mage, human. A dwarf, likely a rogue. An elf, specialization not readily apparent. I hazard warrior by the halberd she carries, but looks can be deceiving. She leashes something tightly, though, so perhaps not purely one class or another. Interesting in this world where only one is encouraged.

Their leader draws most of my attention as I believe he is the one I'm to be dealing with the most. A man in armor that is garish, stained a displeasing orange in spots and silver in others to create some pattern I cannot identify. A warhammer thunders on his back as his boots trudge weight through the sand. It does what I think it is intended to do—draw attention from his face. Distract. Who would guess this man a spy? He is too obvious. He hides in more than plain sight—he hides in attention. If people fail to notice the face, then out of the shell that identifies him, they would fail to notice the man. It would not be my usual way of doing things, but it gets the job done, I suspect.

He's middle-aged, too. At the very minimum, he approaches it, if I'm able to read the fuzzy lines on his face correctly. Rivaini, at least in descent by the mocha of his skin and the deep stormcloud of his eyes. Well, eye. The right has a silvery scar slashed through it, and the eye itself is the intimidating milky shade of blindness. Another scar, smaller and perhaps a bit fresher by the pink, carves along his cheekbone under the other. That he doesn't hide his blinded eye, though, is interesting. Another subterfuge? Covering it would be distinguishing, but not so much as the eye itself. Perhaps common for a dock worker or some other public grunt of whom no one would think twice speaking of secrets around. Smart of him.

No helm obscures his head in any fashion. Intimidation, I think. His hair is barely thinning, curly and pulled back at his nape into a tail streaked with yet more silver through the midnight. A single curl, mayhap too short for the tie, falls across his face. Distinguishing as well, but easily hidden. Twofaced. A man who can flip his image and be gone. He is skilled at what he does, then. Good. I loathe partnering for a job, but when I do, I'll not suffer those who are not able to do their jobs. The others appear competent enough, but they are not my contact. They are tools that come with him. He is to direct them, and I hope he can do so effectively.

I admit that I test a little first. "You're three hours late." I see the human mage jolt a little, as I'd spoken without turning my head fully in their direction. Poor pup. He'd thought I hadn't noticed them yet. The leader, though, smirks. I grin under the mask.

"Aye, got harangued," purrs the leader. His voice is scratchy, and his Ferelden accent tumbles out almost _too_ thick, forced but yet softened by years of practice. "Boss lady ain't one ye' mess with when havin' an ear talked off." The elven woman grumbles at the back of his head. And he shifts oddly, tellingly. One-Eye has a fondness for dead drops and codes—she is loath to give information in person. More knowledge given to advantage one agent over another on a job, certainly, particularly if she is attempting to outmaneuver her own men. But in person, she wouldn't. I know he is lying, but I let it slide. His preoccupations are not my concern.

Scoffing, I push off the stone behind me and turn to them, still in shadow, but not as postured. Defensive, as I can no longer see. But I'm not so blind as that, and they know nothing of it either way. "Reasons are inconsequential. You're lucky I did not run this on my own when you failed to show. If you think this a joke, then go back to the city."

"And get a shiv to the kidney?" He barks a laugh. "No, I ain't a fool, dove. 'Sides, I'll note ye' _didn't_ run the job. Ye' talk big for a lil' thing, I'll give ye' that one." I stiffen and narrow my eyes at the name and words. I don't know what alias One-Eye gave him for me, but I doubt it was "dove". I chagrin about the "little" comment, but it is true. I'm _altmer_ —I'm perhaps too used to being the tallest living thing in the vicinity, though if there's one thing I've noticed in my years in Thedas, it's that I'm only three to five inches taller than the average elf here, about a human's height. It's disconcerting. Helps me blend, but disconcerting.

Another disconcert—this man feels odd. He doesn't have the uncomfortable tingle of a Templar who strengthens reality, nor the too-rough sandpaper of an Aedric mage. His breath does not smell of lyrium, but of something else, something powerful I can't place. I don't know if I like it. I shrug instead, to both him and my own musings. What he is remains of little consequence. I doubt I'll see him after this job, regardless.

"A courtesy, the only one I'll offer." I step into the sunlight. It's the middle of First Seed—no, Drakonis here—so the bit of warmth is welcomed. The illumination, not so much. I'm a creature of shadow and I do not appreciate being forced out of its confines.

I wonder briefly when I became such a sneak—perhaps Lurks-In-Shadows influenced me more than I had originally thought. Shadowscales are tricky things.

 _Were_. A stab of long-buried pain I ignore with too much effort.

"You lead," I say nonchalantly with a careless wave of my hand. "I assume you know where the drop is supposed to be?"

"Ye' don't?" He challenges back, humor in his voice that I disregard.

A shrug. "I do."

He shifts by the sound of his armor clanking. The others do as well, nervously instead of defensive. Do they feel their leader is being threatened? Have they not seen it before? Interesting. "Do ye'? What's ye'r name, dove? Greetin's are usually a courtesy."

Thankfully, he starts walking, taking point as I'd asked. I keep to the edge as his contingent follows behind in a uniform that seems as if they've got a routine for this sort of thing. Rogue in the back. Human and elf to the sides. Rivaini to the front and taking charge. I stay outside of this group's boundaries, but still close enough to the front to continue the conversation. "You've used the only courtesy I offer. I fail to see how it matters, anyway. You seem to have given me one of your own. I have no name you need to know."

"Ah, so ye' approve of mine?" A smug grin must be across his face. I don't rise to the challenge.

"No."

He outright laughs now. "And what am I to call ye' if I need to get ye'r attention durin' this job? Things ain't guaranteed t'go perfect."

Humming, I reach my hearing out and make sure his thundering along hasn't alerted anyone to where we are. The Wounded Coast is notorious for having plenty of unsavories hidden along its slopes and cliffs, tucked away 'round blind bends, who will not hesitate to attack even an armed group. Fool. "I suppose I'll have to force myself to answer to ' _dove_ '. You're not likely to call me anything else."

"Maybe I oughtta' call ye' Sighs. Ye've done it four times in the past few minutes."

Sharply, I tune my senses to this man again. I had indeed sighed four times, but unnoticeably. Quietly. He should not know. Maybe not quite a fool, after all.

I consider him more closely. Consider his company. "Amaryllis." I decide finally. It is not a lie, but it is not the truth he wants. "That's my call. Take it or leave it."

" _Sighs_. Fits better," he chuckles. Though he does point to himself. "Dand. These're—"

"I don't care," I interrupt emotionlessly, calmly. It causes him to start, amusingly enough.

"But don't ye'—?"

"No."

He's probably giving me an incredulous look. "Uh…why?"

I scoff, "Why, indeed? They are your tools. I've no need for words to call them." Crass, but it's bad enough I gave him an alias. I shouldn't have given him, Dand, anything at all. I shouldn't have let him give me _his_ name. Alias. Whatever it truly is.

The dwarf at the back of the group snarls a curse at me in the dwarven tongue that makes me smirk. Good. Let them hate me. All the better for it.

Dand grits a response through his teeth. "They _ain't tools_. They're my guys."

Waving a hand again and crossing my arms across my chest, I say, "Yours all the same."

"Their agencies are their own—I ain't no slaver."

"Of course not. If you were, you'd be dead—I do not suffer people of that ilk. And I was not implying what you think I was implying. Doesn't matter. The mine is just over there. Something doesn't seem right." And it didn't. Too many people swarm the drop, people I was not warned of. And from Dand's reaction, neither was he.

The warrior curses violently under his breath, ducking the group behind the rocky outcropping. The mine in question is down a slope, across from us on the ledge, but the boulders along the edge provide decent cover.

" _Shit_. Teg. Can ye' scout 'em out? Find out who they are?"

Grumbling something under her breath, the dwarf shoots me a dirty glare and slips away. I find my own curses silently spilling towards this group I am with, as without them, I could use my magic and be done with it. While it is not my forte by a long shot, I am adept enough in illusion magic to make myself invisible. Enough as well so that my magic unconsciously hides itself. Not a master, but _enough_. Even if these people in the mine have mages or templars among their rank, they cannot read me unless they are looking for Daedric magic. As I am the only Daedric mage I've seen yet, they wouldn't be.

I try to _look_ as best I can. A few milling about I can tell are armored. Crates or wagons, I think. It's tough for me to say. I can't bare my hands completely to get a better look, or get closer. Something hazy flits about, the dwarf I hypothesize. She's back no more than ten minutes of awkward waiting later.

Except she's grim, and I don't like that. "Are you all sure that this was supposed to be a smuggling job?"

I raise a brow but answer before her boss can. "It's what the information said. Recovery, more like. I was informed that cargo was stolen and we were to retrieve it from its drop point. No people were supposed to be involved—an in and out thing, actually." _That_ makes me pause. Two agents for cautions sake, but five is overkill for the ostensible parameters. Two is far too few, however, for the unexpected presence of these unnamed people, and One-Eye _had_ to have known Dand would bring some of his merc band. Unless…she didn't? She couldn't have known about the occupation of her drop…unless she _did_.

"Do you know what cargo?"

"Lyrium. It's never been anything else."

The girl sighs low. "Then they took over your drop. They recently moved. No banner, but I think they may be Tevinter. They have no cargo, so they may be camping out to find some. I suppose they're as likely as anyone else to take a lyrium shipment if they find it."

Human Mage pipes up sarcastically, "Aren't you a dwarf? Shouldn't you know lyrium better than anyone?"

" _Casteless_ ," she grinds, annoyed. "I know about as much on lyrium as you, shit-face."

Dand smoothly gets everyone back on track, something I find myself mildly appreciative of. He knows when business is business. "Tegna, Dot, _focus_. Sounds like we got a race on our hands. Dove, ye' plan for a hiccough like this?"

I stay emotionless, but do slide my daggers out. "Maybe." I had not, really, but the solution was rather simple: Beat them to the lyrium. Kill anyone in the way. I could do that.

"Care t'share?"

"No. You four do what pleases you."

He glares, voice still light save a warning lacing through that I do not appreciate. "That ain't how a partnership's supposed t'work, Sighs."

"Not a partnership." I live up to the name, though, if only to humor him. "Fine. Distract the ones outside. I can slip in. Get the cargo. Get out."

His brows shoot up to his receding hairline, and his huffing chortle is anything but amused. "No. I ain't lettin' ye' run in there without backup."

"With all due respect, I'm not in your employ. _My agency is my own._ Messere, I know my abilities. You do not."

" _All due_ —ye' can just say ' _kiss my ass_ ', y'know?"

I use the daggers in my hands to point, first to the group of thieving slavers setting up camp outside the lip of the mine, and then to the mine itself. "You do your job. I will do mine. You know your people best. I do not. Sending any of them or yourself with me would only get the both of us killed."

" _Ye' don't know that_." His hiss is through a jaw clenched too tightly.

I back away, slowly, preparing to sidle down the hill and to a place I could carefully veil myself in magic or potion. "Think. I was picked for this for a reason. I know what I'm doing. Do your job. I'll do mine."

I'm gone before he can get a chance to protest.

* * *

 **Getting into the mine undetected was easier than I expected.** Dand and his party actually do what I tell them and begin an assault on the slavers outside the entrance, so I use the chaos to my advantage, down an invisibility potion instead of risk magic, and slip inside. My daggers are poised, ready to kill anyone I find. I'm not leaving one of these bastards alive. I meant what I said to Dand. I don't suffer slavers.

The mine twists and turns, but it's a drop point One-Eye has used before. I know my way to the usual spot, but I am familiar enough with these abandoned caverns that I can search if need be. I catch a few of the Tevinters mumbling about a shipment as they themselves scour, but I know not what they speak of. It makes me narrow my eyes a little, though. These aren't the caves they tend to frequent for slave trades, and while Tevinter _does_ deal in lyrium smuggling on occasion, it's not the slavers that do it. They're far more inconspicuous about their lyrium deals than they are their trafficking ones. What that says about their culture as a whole is a tad revolting.

Creeping up behind a lone sentinel, I time my strike so that his partner is at the opposite end of the makeshift corridor, around a bend. Far enough away he won't hear and won't see if I do this quickly. I lunge up, sharp ironbark dagger in hand, and clasp a palm over his mouth so he can't scream. My own lips purse into a displeased grimace as I suddenly am able to see his eyes widen with the contact, witness his face contort in shock that quickly turns to horror as he realizes what's happening. I used to be an archer back in Nirn. I've never liked getting up close and personal, but with my blindness, ranged kills are no longer an option.

The thing with the armor slavers wear is that there's a weakness on the side of the neck that's easily exploitable if one can get close enough and knows how. Flipping the dagger so that the blade faces outward, I plunge it into the weak spot, lodging solidly just short from under the ear. He chokes at the feeling, but I don't give him time to analyze it as I swiftly yank the weapon out the front of his neck. The wound that the action leaves behind is jagged and ripped, messy, blood pouring from the severed artery even as he suffocates from a torn windpipe. That he dies quickly is not much of a consolation. He suffers, however slight. It is the same method I used on the bodies making a path behind me, just as it is the same I use on his partner, and those after. Methodical murder. I hate this part of my job.

I hear the mercenaries enter the cave several twists and turns behind me. They're grimly solemn as they follow my trail of corpses. I don't have time for their disapproval. If I exit this mine to find any of the camp alive, I'll kill them myself. _I don't suffer slavers_. If the softhearted fools following after me like pups want to allow them life, then I'll happily rectify their mistake. I may not like killing, but this is a cause in where I wholeheartedly feel it justified.

A good friend of mine was Argonian. He was never a slave in Dunmer lands, but he'd freed many a one. The stories Lurks-In-Shadows told, cautionary tales, were no less than horrors. Laws prohibiting the practice don't necessarily eradicate it. The border of Morrowind and Black Marsh had been unpleasant proof of that, but at least they _tried_ to keep up a veneer of illegality over the whole thing. Tevinter actively _encouraged_ the barbarity, which I cannot tolerate when I come across those that indulge.

I find the area where the cargo is being kept just as my potion wears off and the last guard falls dead to my blades. I decide to wait for the mercenaries to catch up. There are several presences in the little room, but only one stands out as threatening in comparison. Rough sandpaper abrading my skin. A mage. I twist my face into a grimace. _Lovely_.

"How the bloody—do you think we're going to be able to move this?" A voice faintly carries through the zig-zagging entrance to the final cavern. I listen closer.

The voice that replies is more cultured than the first. I assume it to be the mage. "Does it really matter? We can transfer it to a smaller container." Large shipment? For lyrium? I doubt it, so…something else? But what?

"If you say so," says another, the sound of a rock being kicked echoing out. "It's crude, though. Risk damaging the merchandise this way. We getting paid well for this?"

Grimly humorous, the mage responds, "We better be."

The mercenaries thump up to me, but I hold a gloved finger to my mask's lips before they get too close. They thankfully quiet instantly, and I interrupt Dand before he can hiss out the lecture behind his countenance. "I saw a mage. At least two more people, probably not all though. This is where the cargo is. They've reached it first, but for whatever reason, they're not moving it. Don't think they're able for some reason."

The elf shifts on her feet. "I don't sense any lyrium." Her whispered accent is thick and Nevarran. It is also untrusting, but I expect this.

"I said it _may_ be lyrium. I never said it was. I wasn't told. Above my station."

Dand hisses, "That mage'll hit hard."

"Uh, hi. We've got two. I think we'll be fine." The other human waves his hands in wild gestures to himself and the elf humorously. So she's a mage? Interesting. She doesn't outright feel like one. It's faint. Hiding? Or maybe she's not the strong of one. Elves are usually more "connected", as it were, to magic, so that doesn't particularly make sense. Hiding is better.

"Still'll hit hard. I hate fightin' mages."

"Spar with us more," the man replies dryly. His accent is very faintly Orlesian, I note, otherwise an amalgam of several different pronunciations that I can only assume he picked up as a mercenary. He's probably not considered himself Orlesian for a very long time, what with being a mage. "I can try to cast a suppression in the room before we go in. It'll knock him, maybe enough to get him down quick."

I ready my daggers again, crouching next to the small entryway that twists and separates the two areas. "Figure it out. I charge in ten, with or without you lot."

The mage goes serious and everyone readies weapons this time, but I think they're sour with me. "Done." The scratch of magic being cast, a startled cacophony of yells, and the five of us burst into the chamber a flurry of blade and magic. The dwarf is a trap-setter, and I avoid them with disdain. The elf is a competent battlemage, but relies on melee a tad more than is practical. Dand is skilled with his hammer and the armor allows him to draw attention and take blows, but not as well as someone with a proper shield would. The Orlesian seems to be support to the elf's combat, casting barriers and healing where it is required.

Dand gets the mage quickly, thankfully in one blow, and the paltry handful of guards fall rather quickly. It was strangely easy. I begin circling the container in the middle of the room, allowing the mercenaries to take care of the bodies. A large crate, not the smaller, lined container I was expecting.

I frown at it as I circle its breadth, mildly confounded despite the fact that I'll never admit to such. It's easily three feet taller than myself, two or so taller than even Dand. Eight to ten feet across either way—there's no plausible method for this to be carted back to Kirkwall. Staking it is an option, but this, I remind myself, is a two-person mission. I'm fairly sure Dand wasn't supposed to bring his mercenaries. We aren't supposed to have the manpower to guard the shipment until other cell members can transport it. My eyes narrow.

I run my fingers along the wood gently, looking for clues while the others focus on rummaging through the Tevinter bodies for useful loot. Halfway around the overlarge crate, something reverberates against my hand. I pause, tilting my head.

"Don't look like these lot managed t'set up shop 'fore we got 'em," calls Dand, ransacking the corpse of a warrior and gleefully attaching a mace to hang at his belt. I can't fathom what for. His warhammer seems plenty capable.

The Orlesian and the elf are patting the mage down for potion, though from the smell of things, I doubt their search will bear fruit—no leafy berry of elfroot is on his person, nor stinging metal of lyrium. "Suppose we can count our blessings on that, then. Think they moved this cargo you were meant to get?" Another rumble from the crate, and sickening realization begins to churn in my gut.

Dand scoffs. "Blast it if I know, lad. Unless we find the Coterie's sign, we're in the dark and—"

" _Damn it!_ Dand! Get over here!" Almost before I can finish my call for help, the warrior is sprinting to me deceptively quick for someone lugging around all that bulk. I'm too busy frantically trying to pry one of the sides of the gargantuan crate off to really notice, though.

"What? What is it?"

"You fucking jinxed us, that's what!" I hissed roughly. "There are people in here! Help me get this off!" The others scramble from their places to give assistance, and between the five of us, the boards come away rather quickly. We're left staring at several frightened, emaciated elven women huddled on the opposite side of the box. Cowering back, eyes flashing in the darkness left within despite the open side and holes in the top. They cling to it like a lifeline. I don't quite understand that feeling of their situation, but I do understand reaching for darkness in hopes that it will cloak. If they could see my own blinded, filmy eyes, they'd see them soften from the hard, glaring edge.

Moving to reach a hand out, Dand stops me quickly. I turn to reprimand him, but he makes a motion like shaking his head. I understand quickly when one of the girls makes a strangled noise of fright. My mask is too much, the design too dark, too close to Tevinter style. I'm intimidating, so I acquiesce and step back to investigate the crate more thoroughly, leaving the tending of the slaves to the mercenaries despite the voice in the back of my head screaming to do anything but.

I'm around back of the crate and the girls are finally calming, being fed elfroot potions from the Orlesian's stash, when I find it. A small etching on a piece of wood deliberately snagged on a nail. It's a shipping address, to these caves, but that's not what infuriates me. It's the crest that lay on it that makes me see red through the darkness. A stag. A _one-eyed_ stag.

" _Aye, got harangued. Boss lady ain't one ye' mess with when havin' an ear talked off._ " That's what Dand had said. The elf had glared at him, and I'd assumed he was lying. But lying and fear can sound similar. I hear the shifting of body language, sure, but some things are out of my scope now. I can't hear blinking patterns change, eyes darting in a telling direction, micro expressions tugging the face just right…

The tag is ripped unceremoniously. In a flash, I'm stomping over to Dand, fingers curling around the back of his armor and slamming him against a boulder before anyone can so much as react. A blade is poised at his throat, and aside from the initial squeals of the elven girls we freed, no one dares make a sound or a move. I am deaf and uncaring of anything outside the fury flashing white in my mind, however.

" _Did you know?_ " My voice is low, dangerous, a viper ready to strike. I can see a hazy outline of Dand's face, and to his credit, it is confused. His heart is racing, belying his fear, but I'm cautious with it. Emotions can sound so close to one another, and I'm already second-guessing what I think I know…I don't buy it, not completely. But it is a start.

His gauntleted hands are raised in surrender, voice calm despite the fact that he has a very sharp knife threatening his life. "Know what?"

" _This_." I shove the tag practically into his face. He stares at it a minute. Then his face tenses enough that my fingers pressed to his collar allow me to see it, and I know his anger is genuine. His gaze steels in a way that can't quite be replicated, face gaining a flush that is only barely visible with his dusky skin tone but is still _there_. I can smell the blood just under the surface with how close I am to him. To my chagrin, I know his answer is truthful before he even utters it.

He's making eye contact with me, to add to his credibility. "No. I swear to ye' dove, I ain't got no clue 'bout that. I had no hand in this."

"Her personal symbol," I spit, letting up and sheathing my dagger, taking several steps back to show the others with hands on their drawn weapons and magic loosed that I mean no harm any longer. "This wasn't a Coterie job. That fucking _bitch_ trades slaves on her own business and uses Coterie grunts to do her dirty work, clear the way for her to— _damn it all_!"

Dand raises an eyebrow, I can tell from his voice. "Ye' don't suffer slavers." His parroting isn't lost on me.

"No, I do not."

"Hey," the Orlesian is quick to cut in through my seething. "Much as I'd love to play ' _Twenty Different Ways to String This Lady Up by Her Earlobes_ ', there are some more pressing matters. I've done what I can for these girls, but they need a real healer. You two can plot how to murder your boss once we get them somewhere they can be seen to."

This jars me out of my anger. The human is right. The girls are wounded, bruised, starved. I haven't a clue how long they were in that crate. It makes One-Eye's crime worse by thrice. Not even Tevinter slavers transport people in crates, like inanimate objects. They chain and degrade and carry them in cages like animals. But never sealed in shipping crates, and it makes me sick.

"Right. There's a healer in Darktown. If we can sneak them in through the smuggling tunnels…well, Darktown won't notice a few more refugees. And the healer won't turn them away." I look back at Dand. "We are continuing this discussion once they've been tended."

He pushes off the boulder and gives me a look as he strides back over to the group to help carry one of the girls. "Lookin' forward to it."

* * *

 _ **Final Words:**_ And we have a Dand locked in! Yay!

I'm gonna leave it here. Hope y'all liked it.

R&R!  
~SurreptitiousFox


	4. The Secret of Tyranny

_**To Be Fearful of the Night  
By:**_ R. V. Grover

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ I don't own Elder Scrolls or Dragon Age. All rights go to their respective peoples. I'm just a sleepy 20 year old playing in the sandbox.

 _ **Quick Author's Note:**_ Well. School happened. This was supposed to be a relatively easy semester, but that hasn't happened. As it is, I'm supposed to be sleeping because I have two finals tomorrow (today?) but that's not happening either. Oh well!

So. Apologies for the late as fuck update. Also, because I'm exhausted and am going to make this brief, I'll let y'all know that I edited part of the last chapter. I'm reuploading it so you ought to get the email notification if you're subscribed, but if you're not, then this is an FYI so you know to go back and read that one.

So, without further ado, enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 3: The Secret of Tyranny

* * *

" _The secret of freedom lies in educating people, whereas the secret of tyranny is in keeping them ignorant._ "

-Maximillien Robespierre

* * *

 _ **~Thedas – 9:34 Dragon~**_

 **From a shadowed corner just outside the clinic doors, I watch.** As he's a rudimentary field medic, the Orlesian (who's called Dot for some reason, I learn begrudgingly) is the one conversing with the haggard healer. The man with the feathered pauldrons is an interesting fellow, voice low and scratchy from lack of sleep and close to mana exhaustion, but still he persists in tending to his patients. I can smell the scent of death clinging tightly to this place. He makes the ones that are lost comfortable as he can, refusing to just leave them to their fate. As someone who was a healer at one point in time, I respect this, even as I am wary of the mage himself. Something just feels _off_ about him, and Dand seems to agree. He takes up post next to me in my corner instead of remaining with his mercenaries. I'm lost to the fact that he wants to continue our conversation from the caves until a second before he speaks, when realization dawns cold and cruel.

"We weren't supposed t'get outta' that alive, ye' know that?"

His point is sound and clear, and I keep my voice quiet to speak. "Hm. Your company wasn't supposed to be there, were they? We'd have been lucky with two people to make it past the guards. Dead to try the mage."

I hear Dand nod grimly. "Aye. Ain't no way she didn't know 'bout the 'Vints. We were set up, we were."

"I meant it."

"Pardon?" he questions, brow cocked.

My head shakes, and I cross my arms almost petulantly. "Slavers. I won't tolerate them. _She_ is a slaver now."

"Couldn't agree with ye' more. But Sighs, she ain't no silver-a-bushel lowlife. She's all but untouchable. Two an' a handful o'help ain't gonna' do shite."

" _Don't call me Sighs_."Several beats of silence ensue as I ponder, still as the winter. I think it unnerves Dand, but he doesn't let it show. Finally, I murmur, "Being dead is a good cover."

"Whassit?" The warrior's brow is raised again. "Care t'share with the class? Or are ye' gonna' rush in half-cocked again, assumin' we all happen t'be mind readers?"

"I don't _rush in_. Only fools do that. How long do you think you can play dead?" I question.

His voice is grudging, wary. "Reckon long enough."

The healer is using his magic on one of the girls, and I shift inconspicuously at the uncomfortable scratching. Even if I _had_ wanted to go in the clinic, and even though Thedosian magic has gotten easier over the years, it's still disconcerting and makes my skin crawl something fierce. "Too many ears. But…how many people has she pissed off?"

Dand frowns. "Dunno. A lot?" My malicious grin is lost on him, hidden under my mask's scowl, but it probably bleeds into my voice.

"Stay out of sight for the time being. When they're done here, meet me outside the city with your crew."

"An' what're we gonna' do?" he scoffs. "Prance around in the moonlight an' hope the Maker smites 'er down? What's the bloody _protocol_ for shite like this?"

I laugh mirthlessly, pushing off the wall and beginning to slide through the shadows that give Darktown its name. Blithely, I call over my shoulder, " _Incite outrage_ , of course!"

His sputtering about how I keep running off before he gets a chance to yell at me properly is left far behind as I turn around a corner. When the warrior scrambles after me, all he finds is a dank corridor lined with the beggars and the desperate, and he has no idea that the reason I blend in so seamlessly is because I'm _nothing_ like any of them.

Or, at least that's what I try to keep telling myself.

* * *

 **The Blooming Rose, for all its Hightown glamour, is a disgusting cesspit through which nothing but vermin crawl out of.** And by vermin, I mean politicians. My nose wrinkles in disgust as I faintly see Kirkwall's Seneschal, Bran, emerge from its skeevy depths, not-so- _self_ -satisfied smirk on his face as he traipses back to the keep to resume his duties for the afternoon. He'll hypocritically be visiting the very same healer's clinic in Darktown that he regularly convinces the Viscount to maneuver Templar raids against, and he'll be visiting within the week. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I grew up an orphan in a repurposed Temple right in the heart of a territory belonging to the Aldmeri Dominion. Thalmor practically swarmed the area like bees to a flower, especially back then, and orphans were prime targets for recruitment. We were often the only ones desperate enough to sign our lives away for a chance to become something other than the begrudged clergy we would have been forced to be otherwise. The constant badgering, tests, cutthroat manipulations. Attempts to see if any of us were worth becoming something lowly enough to not be a stain on the diplomatic (read: militant) arm of the Altmeri government, but still a cog useful in other ways than bent in prayer we didn't believe or teaching young we never wanted. To _prove_ ourselves pure enough of Altmer blood in a society that prided itself on _superior selective breeding_. And those that couldn't, that refused to stay hidden away like an illegitimate disease? Well…let's just say I _hate_ politicians. Almost as much as slavers. The only halfway decent politician I've met was Jarl Idgrod, and even then, she could unnerve me. Good of her people at heart notwithstanding, some of her machinations set my teeth on edge.

In a way, Harlan, One-Eye, and all the other Coterie cronies are underworld politicians in their own right. For all her unsavoriness, the dwarven boss of the espionage cell is excellent at her job. She's well practiced at shifting pawns to further her own gain, which until now, I believed aligned with Harlan's. Profit. Money is a wonderful motivator. Too good of one, apparently, as One-Eye dabbles in pies she has no business shoving her fingers in. Slave trafficking is done for a paltry handful of reasons, and I think I can safely guess which one is her incentive.

Using Bran's exit to my advantage, I slink through the front door to the brothel before it can slide shut. I'm cloaked in invisibility courtesy of one of my potions I managed to concoct. It's one I've tested to be rather long-lasting, but I'm equipped with spares should the need arise or this take longer than it ought to. The Blooming Rose is jointly owned, Harlan being one of the owners alongside the Madam, but what barely anyone knows is that there are offices for Coterie higher-ups located within the building. It's never stated by anyone, but it doesn't take much to figure it out—the Rose is, after all, where freelancers are sent for their payments, always met by the cell leader, and the brothel's larger chambers are where the rare meetings of import are held. Besides, wealth is the main reason why anyone works their way up in the Coterie—why would the leaders of such an organization be content to wallow in the filth of the slums with the common grunts? No, Hightown and its high-class luxuries are more their style.

However, I don't know where in the building the office is that I am looking for. I do not frequent this place for any reason—I am not a freelance. I am indebted to the Coterie, not the other way around. So I wait in an alcove near to the entrance, watching for Dand's mercenaries to make their appearance.

The ruse is quite simple really. I need proof against One-Eye. At minimum, evidence that she deals in the slave trade. At most, I need solid facts about the rumors of her sabotaging not only her men, but members of other cells. If I'm honest, the first bit will be more than enough to get most of the Coterie on our side—we deal in a lot of things, but slaves are definitely _not_ one—but I'd prefer to have more than enough to send the mob barreling down on her. Literally. Giving the ordinary Coterie workers (people who far outstrip the leaders in numbers) proof that she's deliberately killed and set-up their comrades? It's the final knot to bring the noose around her neck, and one I'll pocket gleefully.

Except I don't know where the woman's office is, exactly. Melana, the elven battlemage and apparently Dand's second, does know from the times they've had to collect payment from the woman. But Dand is hidden successfully away in a cave on the Coast, and to everyone here, he and I are three days missing. One thing I don't think One-Eye accounted for was that Bloodlight (the gaudy name of the collective band of mercenaries) would be wondering on the whereabouts of their boss.

The plan is for Melana and the others to distract One-Eye under the auspices of asking after Dand long enough for me to slip invisibly into her office, get the information, and get out. A simple thing in concept, difficult in practice. I know the dwarf won't make things easy for any of us. She's too suspicious for that, jumping at shadows, her guilt all but to her mind painting targets on her back. It makes it worse, in a manner. She knows that what she's doing is wrong, but she does it anyway.

I don't have to wait long. Fifteen minutes pass before I fuzzily see the mercenary dwarf, Tegna's, fiery red hair stomping through the door. Melana's face is drawn into an annoyed scowl, I think, as she huffs to keep up with the hyperactive rogue, and Dot follows behind with a level of exasperation, appearing all the part of a befuddled babysitter. They look quite out of place draped in armors and strapped with weapons. It's comical in a way.

Pushing off the wall to follow them, I slink soundlessly past the various people scattered about the brothel until we reach a backroom that is deserted. From there, I listen to Melana shove aside a bookcase to reveal a small hallway. I have to raise a brow at that—it's cliché, but the clichés, I concede, work for a reason. It winds and twists until it opens up to another larger and more lavish hall. This must be where the offices are, I muse.

The battlemage stalks right up to one of the doors a little ways down, and I can almost envision her with her chin held high, scowl fixed in place, the antithesis to everything Thedosian society views elves to be. I hear her knock loudly on the door as I shift to the side opposite where it will open, careful to position myself to be able to slip inside as soon as it does without alerting anyone.

She has to knock again before cursing spews from inside, preceding thundering footsteps that almost yank the door off its hinges. What is revealed is surely a sight. I'm in too awkward a position to try and see, but I know the face One-Eye must be pulling right now, and it is surely amusing. The woman has short, mousy hair that is coiled into wild curls atop her head. A bold eye patch rests over her right eye where she claims it was clawed out a decade ago by a by an angry Rivaini pirate for stealing the woman's mark…or something. I've always suspected that she's lying through her teeth about it—the whole story is a stretch of the imagination—however I've never been able to prove it. One-Eye is one of the few people I've come across who can lie without a physical response. When I claim she is heartless, I mean it earnestly.

"Where is the captain?" Melana asks, crisply getting right to the point with absolutely no preamble. She's a model of efficiency, that one, in every sense of the word. Very Nevarran.

One-Eye shifts with a scoff, "Hold on, hold on. Slow down there, love. Where is who?"

The elf growls, " _Our captain_. Where is he?" I can almost hear One-Eye's eyes…well, _eye_ narrowing dangerously from here.

"Your momma never teach you that demanding is rude, girl? Anyway… You're talking about the mercenary, right? No idea. If he's up and run off, that's on his time, not mine. It ain't my responsibility to babysit my employees." I'm still as stone, judging distances, sorting locations, listening to how the smallest sounds are shifted and funneled as they have to move around the individuals gathered in this space.

Melana surges forward and slams her fist into the doorframe. I narrowly avoid brushing against her as her movements force the dwarf to take a half step back. "Dammit! You know _damn_ well why we are here! He has been missing _three days_! He left us to work a job _you_ gave him!" I grit my teeth. Melana, Tegna, and Dot are supposed to draw One-Eye out of the office, yes, but I first need enough space to actually _enter_ the room _before_ the dwarf steps out and closes the door after her. Trying to open the door again with no one noticing would be near impossible.

But Melana doesn't know that. All they were told was to draw One-Eye out of the office. They don't know how I'm going to get myself in there while they distract One-Eye. I had to fight to get them to agree to do this blind, excuse the pun. I may not like trust, but when it's put in me, it's not something I take lightly. Failure is not an option.

I hold my breath as the bickering continues, raising in volume. Listening. A few seconds that feel like an eternity later, and I hear it. A small step in the right direction, a change in the air. Barely enough, but I take the opportunity anyway. I'm in the room a moment later, off to the side where no one runs the risk of running into me.

"Look, we just want to know where he is and we'll leave you alone," Dot tries to reassure, playing the ally. I'm unsure if it works until I hear One-Eye sigh quietly, under her breath as if ashamed of her exasperation.

A few footsteps echo in the right direction. "Fine."

"Walk and talk?" Tegna chimes in, voice trying to sound upbeat and disarming. It works. Sort of. "We have another job lined up in Cumberland. We would have left yesterday, but we've been waiting on the Captain." The other dwarf grumbles but apparently agrees. More footsteps and the door creaks shut. I'm left standing invisibly of to the side of the now empty room, dumbfounded a little because I wasn't expecting that to work as well as it did. Getting One-Eye out of her office was supposed to be the difficult part.

Time is of the essence, however, so I quickly set to work. I find the desk easy enough and to my unending gratitude to whatever powers that be, it's scattered with papers. Peeling a glove off to help me search, I begin shuffling through them as quick as I can. Speed reading isn't as easy when you're several years out of practice and only shakily familiar with the script used.

"Shipping manifest—coded, of course. Bank statements…damn, that's quite a number. Uhh, looks like someone…er… _enjoys_ the brothel. Could have gone _without_ knowing that, but moving on," I grumble to myself, brow becoming increasingly furrowed. "If I were the secret, incriminating documents of a traitorous cunt, where would I be? Not on the desk, moron. Too obvious. Okay. Let's see…"

Scanning the room, I spot an innocuous-looking basket decorating an end table in the corner by a quaint little fainting couch. It's decent sized, round, and there are fake flowers pointing this way and that. If One-Eye was the type for colorful flora, I wouldn't think anything of it. But she's not, and Crystal Grace doesn't really scream "psychopathic maniac", anyway. I huff a laugh of disbelief. This is too easy.

Cautiously, I shuffle over and examine the basket without touching it. Deciding to take a bit of a chance, I flair my magic the tiniest fraction to search for any enchantments or magical traps that may attempt to jump out at me. But I find nothing. It makes me even more suspicious.

"What're you playing at?" It's got to be something mechanical. There's no way this isn't trapped. Or a decoy. I duck down to look under the table, and peculiarly, the bottom is far lower than it ought to be. A hidden compartment, then?

I have to move the basket. Gingerly, I place both hands to the sides and lift the flower-laden wicker slowly with my fingertips. Nothing happens. The breath I hadn't realized I was holding onto for dear life escapes me in a rush. Not out of the proverbial woods yet, but it's a step in the right direction.

Setting it to the side and making sure it's at the same orientation, I peer at the space left behind. The basket was meant to cover the faint seam left from where a wood panel is hiding what I assume to be a secret compartment. How very spy-like of One-Eye, I think, but at least she didn't put a safe behind a painting. I probably would have blown my cover to throttle her if she'd been that cliché.

I ponder the table. Push down and slide or try to lift? I volley back and forth for a few beats before ultimately deciding to try the push and slide method.

Big mistake because this is where the trap comes in.

I feel a mechanism click once the panel is depressed about a half inch, but I'd been expecting that. What I _wasn't_ expecting was for it to freeze up and a pair of knives stuck just under the ledge on both sides to come springing out and nearly sever my hand.

" _Fuck!_ " I hiss under my breath. My wrist does get nicked pretty well. It draws blood, enough to drip into the panel. I realize what it is a fraction of a second too late, when the runic decorations etched as a border on the table suddenly start glowing. There's a rush of…the best way I can describe it is antimagic. Templar abilities, similar to the concept behind a phylactery.

The "trap" isn't necessarily to keep people _out_ , it's to keep people from getting _away_. It's a way to track whoever attempts to steal the documents within the compartment.

Sneaky. I'd approve if it didn't completely take most of my hopes and dash them through a funeral pyre.

Making a split-second decision, I charge my hand with magicka for the express purpose of applying enough force to shatter the stuck panel. I'll be damned if I don't leave with what I came for. Reaching in and snatching up the thick portfolio within, I move the basket back over the gap and quickly make my escape from the office. The markings are still glowing despite my panel-shattering move causing a crack to splinter through the entire table, but I'm hoping that One-Eye won't notice anything amiss until after the others leave her company. Her being able to track me now is bad enough—I don't need her connecting the dots between Melana, Dot, and Tegna drawing her away from her office and returning only to find the leftovers of a timely theft.

I don't pass One-Eye out the others on my way out of the brothel, but I'm not too concerned. I've done the first part of my task. Now all that's left is actually reading through what I've taken, hoping it's what I think it is, and then compilation into something I can disseminate, something that will inflame. And as much as it pains me, I have just the person in mind for that last step…

* * *

 **While I hate the Blooming Rose, I have far less reservations about the Hanged Man.**

It probably has to do with inns and taverns being something I have more than a passing familiarity with, courtesy of all those years running around with Jogrunn. Being a companion to a Dragonborn on a world-saving mission will do that, apparently. While jaunting our merry way across Skyrim attempting to stop Alduin (yet somehow managing to get drawn into everything _but_ stopping the World-Eater), I don't think either myself or the Nord had any real concept of home in mind. I know I never _have_ , even when I was a child. Being an orphan makes home an obscure thing, and I'm sure being kicked out of the Temple I was raised in at fifteen really didn't do that any favors. Undilar, the priest who was my caretaker from the second I arrived in Kvatch, gave me more stability than I could have hoped for otherwise, but even he couldn't make that cavernous chapel all that heartwarming despite his best attempts.

After Alduin was gone, it hadn't felt like I'd been able to get more than three breaths in before Jarl Idgrod began reminding me of why she'd encouraged me to remain with Jogrunn in the first place. I had been hunting too close to an Imperial patrol near Cheydinhal and gotten captured with the Stormcloak contingent—same boat as Jogrunn, actually. We'd stuck together after the disaster at Helgen, me because I didn't know anyone in Skyrim and surviving in the frigid environment when I'd never had to before would be next to impossible, and him because I'd attached to him like veritable glue and he couldn't be rid of me.

Once he found out about being Dragonborn, he'd asked me to stay with him to help, and I agreed at first out of sympathy. He really had no one, so I'd stay at least until he could find another person to travel with him. When we reached Morthal, I had every intention of remaining in the tiny little town, hitching a ride on a caravan south back to Cyrodiil, and moving on with my life like all that dragon business never happened. But when we'd spoken to Jarl Idgrod, she'd given me this _look_. I couldn't explain it—still can't, actually—but it had been utterly piercing. She'd known something, clearly, that I didn't. We stayed in Morthal for only two days, but in that span of time she had managed to not only twist my decision about staying with Jogrunn around on its head, but she also managed to do so all while making me believe it was my idea in the first place.

Her reasoning was that something was coming, something I'd be needed for. I didn't understand it at the time, but the time for understanding came much, much later. On the Throat of the World, Jogrunn standing with an Elder Scroll in his hands, finally looking all the part of the hero he'd been reluctant to accept he was. I was proud, then, to call that man friend. I still am. Wherever he is.

So, walking (well, _sneaking_ ) into the Hanged Man hits me with a wall of nostalgia the second I cross the threshold. The place is a dive, but I expected nothing less from Lowtown. People don't come to taverns like the Hanged Man for a good drink and the company—they come to forget. _What_ they're forgetting differs, but that is the thing they share. An escape, a way out, even if it's only for a little while. Taverns like this feel almost removed from the outside world—time seems to flow differently. I slink through the crowd that is almost too easy to hide in, frowning when I pass a woman muttering to herself as she slouches over her drink. I hear something about a failure, and I have to wonder just how tenuous the line of purpose really is that separates me from the people in this room hiding behind their tankards and idle chatter.

I only know how to find the room I'm looking before because I've spent several years deliberately trying to _avoid_ it, and the irony is not lost on me. I want nothing to do with anyone associated with Garrett Hawke, save maybe Merrill. He is…not a good man, by any accounts I've heard. He made my skin crawl from a distance the day he came to Sundermount, and none of the stories floating about have done a thing to assuage my misgivings. However, in this instance, I don't have another option to get the information out in a manner that will achieve my purposes. I am not a writer. Varric Tethras, however, _is_ —and he's a damned good one.

I sigh when I reach the darkened room and slip inside. The dwarf in question is snoring loudly on his bed in the corner of the open floorplan, and I perch on his grandiose table to wait for him to wake. If I've timed this correctly (which I know I have), then I shouldn't have to wait long. It's an hour past dawn, so he should be stirring any minute now.

Enviously, I eye the hazed image of Tethras' slumbering form when I press my fingertips to the table. I've been darting across Kirkwall like a crazy woman since yesterday evening when I swiped the documents, just in case destroying the table didn't disrupt the tracking imbued within the wood. I haven't been able to sit still very long for fear that One-Eye has people trying to find me, so I predictably haven't slept either. Or eaten much. A few nibbles here and there when I've been able to manage, but nothing beyond that. So the author sleeping not five feet in front of me only makes my own fatigue more apparent.

The tracking is another reason why I'm here, in a way. If not for that, I'd have just gone to Merrill with this, had her hand the documents and instructions off to Tethras since she knows him. He'd be more likely to do it even if it's for a third party if it came from her since there's already the established relationship. I don't like showing my mask to more people than I have to, but I won't risk getting Merrill more involved in Coterie politics than she already indirectly is. Especially since I have my suspicions Tethras has his own ties to the Coterie. And as much as I do genuinely like the girl…she doesn't watch her words as carefully as she should, shall we say?

My waiting game doesn't really last all that long, but it seems to drag on due to my own fatigue. Eventually, though, the dwarf begins to stir. To his credit, it only takes him a fraction of a second after becoming cognizant to realize there's someone in the room with him who shouldn't be there. His hand reaches for the spot next to his bed where his crossbow should be quick as lightning. I'm honestly impressed at his reaction time, but I'm better.

"Looking for this?" His head whips towards me when I speak softly, reaching down to where I've got his weapon propped instead next to where my leg is dangling off the edge of the table to tap at the mechanisms.

I'm not a fool to think he's still unarmed, but I can see on his face that his weapon being moved has taken him off guard. "I didn't know I should have been expecting guests for breakfast." My eyebrow rises. Those are his first words? Seriously?

"Don't worry, Tethras (yes, I know who you are), I'm not here for eggs and tea. I'm also not here for nefarious purposes, I promise—well, not nefarious towards _you_ ,anyway."

He eyes me as he shifts his position on the bed. It's less of an attack move and more of one that will allow him to run if he should wish. "Right. And you took Bianca because her charms are impossible to resist?"

I'm confused for a moment. Bianca? Blinking, I follow his gaze to his…crossbow?

Shrugging, I fluidly cover for my lapse of confusion. Who names a crossbow _Bianca_? "I only took your weapon to ensure that you'd let me say more than three words without attacking me."

"A bit presumptuous, there?"

"It's worked so far," I snort. "Listen, I'm going to make this quick. I don't have a lot of time, and I don't want to waste yours. I need to hire you to compile some information for me."

Varric sits a little straighter, and I can tell in the cadence of his voice that he's interested despite his words sounding nonchalant. "That's kinda vague. And most people go through my editor to when they want me to do a commission, not eerily creep into my room early in the morning to ambush me. They also tell me their name."

"I'm not most people," I say without missing a beat, sliding off of the table slowly and carefully picking the stolen portfolio up from where I'd set it next to me. I know he sees my daggers, but I take extra care not to move like I'm reaching for them as I creep forward to hand him the documents. "Name your price and I'll do what I can—I'll even pay extra for you not to breathe a word of this to anyone." As predicted, at the mention of a hefty sum of payment, most inhibitions on his face drain clear away. I sneer under the mask. Typical. People are so predictable. Greedy, corrupt, sons of—

"Maker's balls, tell me this is what I think it is," Varric breathes, shaking me out of my lamentations. He's thumbing through the pages, awe creeping more and more onto his face with each line. "How did you… You got proof of…!" He must know who One-Eye is, then, I think wryly.

"It is, and I did with some consequences, now if you'd please _keep your voice down_ , Serah." Varric's eyes snap to me. I can tell he wants to ask about those consequences, but I shake my head to dissuade the notion. "I need this compiled. I think you know what I mean when I say that."

It's the dwarf's turn to have his eyebrows creep up to his hairline. "You're either the bravest son of a nug I've ever come across, or you're the stupidest."

"I prefer the former, if you ask me." I cross my arms with a barked laugh.

Varric's head shakes, though, breathing out a sigh that is equal parts disbelief and consideration. "How many do you need and how quickly? I'm assuming you're talking something like a pamphlet?"

"Yes, that's what I had in mind," I muse. "I need as many as you can, as quickly as you can get them. I will pay you what I can, but I'm on a bit of a time crunch at the moment."

He gives me a funny look, "What're you—?"

"Covering my ass. Something I need to get right back to, so the quicker we can wrap up this little transaction, the better."

"Alright, alright," he placates quickly. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, there, Fireball. I can do it."

"How long?"

Sighing, Varric runs a stubby hand through his tangled hair. The hair on his _head_ , though he probably could have done it to the hair covering his chest, as well. "A week and a half? Two? I'm going to need to go through a printer if you want that many copies. That's going to take time. And coin if you want this kept quiet."

"That's fine. So long as it can be kept under wraps long enough for me to get this where I need it." I cautiously reach to unhook a pouch from my belt, handing it carefully to the dwarf. He takes it with some hesitation, but upon hearing the clink of coins from within, he lightens some. I can agree—booby-trapping a coinpurse would really be a low thing to do. "Consider this a down payment. It's all I have on me at the moment, but once you've got my commission, then we can work out a number for the remainder. Deal?"

For a tense moment, Varric looks between the coinpurse, my outstretched hand, my mask, and the papers still on his lap. He must make up his mind eventually because his hand grips my own without too much preamble. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding, only to take up another one. I'm going to have to trust him not to break business-client confidentiality, but my hands are tied for anything else. It's nerve wracking.

"Deal," he says, and I feel his eyes on my back as I turn to leave. Just before I'm slipping out the door, I hear his voice again. "You never told me your name."

"Why? Is that a necessary part of a business arrangement?"

He shrugs. "It's a courtesy, Fireball. Unless you want me to put you down as Fireball in my ledger." I purse my lips, chagrinned not because he suggested it, but because I'm actually considering it.

"…Adahla," I decide after a second. "But put me in your ledger as Fireball, I suppose."

He asks, confused, "Then why tell me your name?"

" _Alias_ ," I correct with a shrug. Before I completely leave the room, I throw over my shoulder. "It's a courtesy, right?"

I don't hear his response before I'm on the streets walking back to Darktown to find some dank pit to hide in for the next while. Maybe Dand was right about me having to get the last word in, I think with a frown.

A few seconds consideration, and I shake my head in denial of such a preposterous accusation, resuming my perilous game of hide and seek with a slight measure more of confidence in my step than when I'd started out.

* * *

 _ **Final Words:**_ So. One more chapter, and then we're out of the pre-Inquisition stuff. I honestly didn't intend for it to be five chapters until then, but I work with what my brain gives me.

R&R!

~Grover


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